Walking Dead Can Anybody Hear Me?

**So sorry for the absence. Crazy things happening in my life, but they're settling down. So I had this dream about different scenes that would happen; most happy, some are pretty dark and gloomy. I don't know what kind of story this will be, yet, but I hope it's a good one. Don't want to give too much away, so here is my re-debut story, lol.**

**I do not own any characters featured in The Walking Dead, only the OC's. Any likeness between an OC and a character on the show is coincidental and unintentional. Please don't sue, I'm so po', I can't afford be 'poor'. (and there's my bad joke of the night.)**

**Without further ado, enjoy and let me know what you think!**

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><p><em>Dear Journal,<em>

_They say life throws opportunities your way, chances to throw out the old and reinvent who you are. I highly doubt those people thought a zombie outbreak would've been one of those opportunities. I guess you could say the nerdy girl back in school, well, she's still a nerd. But she's a nerd with a rather important skill. If only the others realized how important my hobby from middle and high school could've been to them. How many others do you know in this danky town, that could talk to people in China, on a common, hand-held walkie-talkie? No-one else, and yet, they were all gone within weeks. No one, but you, journal. Of course, I'm sure if you had legs, you'd walk away from me, too. I promised myself that I'm not gonna be that little girl, the one who would rather let someone walk than risk exposing my feelings to be rejected. It's why all my friends, family, and the few townspeople that haven't died, eventually left me. Because I was too scared to beg them to stay. I'm making an iron-clad promise, here and now. The next person I see, I'm going to do everything in my power to beg them to take me to their group, or at least start one of our own. Any number seems to be better than one...  
><em>

In the dim light, that a dying candle offered, a young woman hung her head, stiffling back the few tears that've threatened to escape. She lifted her head, her braided pigtails throwing off her appearance of a girl on the verge of adulthood. She gently slid back the office chair she'd found, knowing that the slightest noise could bring her death. Easing herself into a standing position, she stretched her thin frame, her hands stretching high above her head as her plaid shirt exposed her belly button.

"Come on, Trinity," she whispered to herself, "gotta shake the bones loose."

The moonlight outlined everything in front of her, as she reached towards a leather-bound book and pen, placing it gingerly in a knapsack she picked off of a walker. The other contents of the bag obscured, as she closed it, securing it on her back as she made her way out of the attic room she claimed the last few years as home.

"Come on, Jay," she whispered to herself, lifting the bag higher on her shoulders, flashing a smile as if reassuring someone other than herself, "let's find some more food around here." She had began to descend the familiar stairs, even in the blanket of darkness, when she heard something _un_familiar. The distant roar of a motorcycle grew louder until it was unbearable. And then, almost as quickly as it came, the noise cut off, followed by the creaking of the front door swinging open.

_Shit, _she thought to herself, _there's someone else here._ As silently as her worn converse shoes would permit, she crept backwards up the stairs, praying that whoever was downstairs, would leave her be.

Whatever God lay above her in the universe, remembered a promise she made, about joining with the next person she met. She barely made it back two steps, before one stair gave way beneath her tiny frame, as she fell halfway through the hollow stairs, giving out a cry of pain. Sure, that'd be a great first impression. And before she knew it, she had a flashlight shining in her face, which, by the way, was being manhandled.

"What the hell is your problem, douchebag? I ain't a zombie!" Anger was rising quickly, she hoped it hadn't ruined her only chance at what could be some companionship with fellow survivors.

"Hush, little girl. Anybody else here, alive or not?" A quiet, husky voice asked her. This guy has balls, breaking into her home, and shoving a weapon in her face. And now he was calling her little?

"Not for about a year, now. Would you mind, I don't enjoy being stuck in my staircase like bait." Her feeble attempts to free herself were finally noticed, as she heard a slight chuckle. It wasn't until she shook her black hair from her eyes, an almost grey-ish color, that she was able to get a decent look at the douche-bag. As his bare arms easily slid under her's, lifting her free, did she notice the crossbow slung behind his back. Her eyesight was nearly white with pain, as he attempted to set her back on her feet.

"Ow! Careful, Douche-bow!" Trinity's eyes, as well as the man she's dubbed Douche-bow, looked down at her tattered jeans, now stained red with deep gashes. She could hear the silent cursing as he helped her downstairs to the lower-level. It wasn't until she was almost carried through her childhood home, that she knew it, along with the old-world, had to be left behind. She could hear the other man, tapping on a radio, attempting to what she would guess as calling back to his group. Her eyes rolled as she heard chopped words, and his feeble attempt to get through. Finally, she had enough of what she considered torture on her soul.

"What are you doing, Douche-bow?" She asked, readjusting herself on what used to be her father's favorite recliner. She never knew why it was his favorite, that damn spring may as well have been punching her in the back. Her eyes could see him a bit clearer, as she lit an oil lamp sitting by the chair. The light did him a favor. From the voice, she imagined a dirty, hairy, musky-looking redneck. In the light, he was still dirty, but better looking than she could imagine. His hair was scraggly, but their eyes were the same shade of grey.

"I'm tryin' t'get this damn thing working. Can't call a doc I know if I can't call out." The man began what she calls a torture session, consisting of tapping various places on the hand-held, as if working some magic spell.  
>"Oh dear god, give that thing to me, douche-bow."<p>

She could see his annoyance with his unflattering nickname, staring at her with a growing irritation. "I have a name, _woman_." He hissed, spitting out 'woman' as if it were venom on his tongue.  
>"Well, I can't call you a name I don't know, <em>man.<em>" She whispered back. If there was one thing Trinity learned growing up with all boys, it was how to turn around a teasing.

She vaguely heard him say 'Daryl', handing her a radio before retreating a distance. She might appear . Upon closer inspection, she could tell this poor piece of technology had been through hell and back. The antennae was not properly screwed on, and chips and cracks showed the abuse the radio suffered, from who-knows-what. Daryl watched as she reached inside her backpack, his hand itching on the knife he had stowed in his pocket, waiting for a weapon to be drawn. What looked to be a tiny screwdriver was pried by her delicate fingers, watching her pull this part off, and screw this part tighter. He walked around the house, mostly to see how in the world an 18 year old girl lived here, for almost a year. His hearing was focused on the tiny scraps and clinking of the girl fixing the radio, picking up a silent curse now and then. His eyes scanned the pictures he could see in the low-light. There was one picture of what was an older couple, the man lovingly wrapping his arms around his woman, her looking up at him and smiling. Another picture he took note of, the same man in the previous picture within a group of others about his age, wearing what looked to be military uniforms, probably Army, he figured. Some other frames were crooked, a few with pictures of different babies and some with newspaper clippings. There was one in particular that stood out from the rest, it was an article announcing one of the first deaths of the apocalypse, before everything else went to hell. It held a picture of the same couple, three boys ages 8-14, and the girl fixing his radio. He glanced over the article, picking up on phrases such as "Passing of the Masons confirmed to be the first of the undead outbreak", "Community mourns a great loss", and "Daughter is sole survivor, as town pities her loss." Something within him familiarized with her situation, but he suppressed the feeling of familiarity as he heard a mostly-intelligible voice over the radio.

"Daryl? Come in, Daryl." He heard Rick's voice, traces of concern over authority as Daryl replied.

"I'm okay, hit a snag but I'm on my way back." Daryl's eyes flicked to Trinity. She was silently pleading with him as he shot a confused look to her. 

"I don't want to be by myself, I've been alone for almost a year."

Daryl shook his head. His mind telling him that a new person added to the group would throw off the dynamic, and his little family was fine the way they were. "No, ain't happenin'."  
>"Please! I <em>need<em> to come with you!"

"No!" His mind seemed to be made up, but she refused to give in. If she were left alone just one more time, she wouldn't be alive to see the next sunrise

"I know this area, what good places there are, quick routes through here, and I fixed your radio. I might be a 'little girl'," Trinity sneered as she air-quoted the last two words, "but it's gonna be this little girl that could save your ass with this skill. And you know it will, because you don't have anybody that can do anything with a radio like I can."

He scratched his chin, his mind running over the good points she brought forth to his attention. She had a good point, he knew their radios haven't been the best, and it's been getting more difficult keeping in touch as the supply and scouting runs have been going further and further as they exhausted the nearby places.

His mind was decided, as he brought the radio to his lips.

"I'm bringing a person with me, she's pretty banged up 'cause o'me. Have Hershel ready in half an hour."

Her chest heaved in relief, holding a breath she didn't know she kept in her throat. Finally, things would be looking up for her.

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><p><strong>I know it isn't the best written, but I've been dying to get this fic out there for a while. Having to work constantly drained me, but it will improve. Let me know what you think, and if you would like to see more of this story. Thanks for reading!<strong>


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Walking Dead, Friendship, Romance